Rod Miller: Mail Call Around the Ol’ Campfire

Sunset was an orange blush on the horizon over the Wyoming Range and beans simmered in Cookie’s cauldron. It had been a tough day on the trail, and the tuckered cowboys were in no mood for foolishness.

Powder River Pete waved a piece of paper in the wan firelight and said, “Lookee here what I got in the mail t’other day. Its a flyer tellin’ me they wanna sell me a new breed of cow that don’t need to eat.”

Pete passed the paper around to his confreres. “Says here them cows’ll get fat on a Walmart parkin’ lot. Says they’ll eat nothin’ but rocks an’ rattlesnakes an’ still pack on weight. Guaran-damn-teed!”

“What’s the price on them cows?” asked Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins. “They cain’t come cheap.”

“It don’t say.” Pete appeared puzzled. “I guess yer s’posed to just trust ‘em an’ throw open yer wallet.”

Cookie gave the frijoles a stir and advised, “Ya gotta be careful readin’ what comes in the mail these days. There’s a lotta bullshit artists out there. It's election season after all.”

“No kiddin’,” added Doc from Dayton, “I got a mailer from some yokels back east tellin’ me iff’n I bought their horse sight-unseen, or voted fer their candidate, I cain’t remember which, I wouldn’t regret it. They promised me that the critter would crap gold nuggets an’ make me a rich man.”

Low grumbles circled the ol’ campfire as the broncpeelers cussed anything that came from “back east”.

The Kaycee Kid brandished his spankin’ new smartfone and said, “It ain’t just the mail, pards. I got a text from some PAC in Ohio or somewheres, sayin’ my county commissioner was really an Iranian spy sent by the Ayatollah to harvest our precious body fluids.”

Gus from Granger gasped and said, “Hell, I know your commissioner. He’s my cousin an’ a good ol boy. He ain’t never been outside o’ Sweetwater County. What the hell does a gomer from Ohio know about Wyoming anyhow?”

This prompted Joe the Wranger to pull a glossy door-hanger from his chap pocket. “Some asshole left this on the bunkhouse door. It says that Wyoming is fixin’ to be taken over by baby-eatin’ Bolshevik bombthrowers, an’ if we wanna save our Wyoming Values, we gotta vote fer these Freedom Caucus knuckleheads that came here from back east.”

Grumbling intensified around the ol’ campfire. The cussin’ ratcheted up and shootin’ irons were patted. A gruff voice or two growled, “Somebody oughta do somethin’ about this.”

Before the campfire rhetoric got too western, Cookie ambled up and waved his spoon at the angry throng.

“Y’all are actin’ like scared schoolkids,” he said, “whinin’ an’ carryin’ on like ya just heard a story ‘bout boogiemen. Wanna know why yer snifflin’ an’ cryin’ over them there messages from back east?”

Wrinkly eyes were raised, as if to say, “Why’s that, Cookie?”

“Cuz y’all let yer bullshit detectors get rusty, that’s why! Ya ain’t kept ‘em clean an’ oiled so they work when the lies start a’flyin’.”

Cookie pointed his accusing spoon at each cowboy. It's up to you bastids to get ‘em workin’ again, so ya don’t go cryin’ to momma every time someone flings bullshit yer way.”

Downcast eyes regarded toes of boots in the campfire light.

Cookie concluded, “Next time some dude from Detroit tells ya that “night is really day” or “tofu taste just like t-bone”, use yer God-given bullshit detector an’ consider the source. If something walks like a duck, quacks like a duck an’ smells like a duck, it sure as hell ain’t a horse. Think fer yerselves, dammit. Now, who wants coffee?”

Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com